Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.
“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.
I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.
I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.
“In here,” he mumbled.
Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.
That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.
He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.
“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.
He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.
“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.
I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.
“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.
Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.
If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.
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